Bachelor #15

Every once in a while the stars align and the miraculous occurs: the random meeting. I was at city hall looking after some annoyance or other when a dashing gray-haired, sophisticated Middle Eastern property developer started chatting with me and gave me his card. I emailed, we exchanged witty banter, and set a date.

I had my reservations. A Jewish girl and an Arab? What am I doing? But these are lean times and he did seem very mature and refined. And kind of attractive. So I went.

Thinking I was meeting a mature, refined, sophisticated gentleman, I wore a skirt and heels. He wore his rattiest t-shirt, cargo pants and a baseball hat. Man, was I wrong about him. Mr. sophisticated turned out to be a smooth-talking, hard-partying 39-year old commitmentphobic Iranian. Needless to say, we had a great time.

So he didn't call for 2 weeks. Then I get a charmingly passive aggressive email about the fact that I should have called him. Maybe they don't have chivalry in Iran? Still, times remain lean and I agreed to go out with him again. Took him two weeks to slot me into his busy schedule, but again we had a great time. Maybe a little too great.

And I got the same email. 6 weeks later. Maybe they don't have momentum in Iran either.

Next.

Bachelor #8

At the risk of venturing ever so slightly off topic, I have a boring, dead-end job. It pays OK, though never enough to afford the lifestyle which I believe for some unknown reason that I deserve. So in the interest of self-improvement, professional development, blah blah blah, I took a week-long management course at a local university business school. Naturally, I was hoping one of the course instructors would be impossibly handsome, so successful that he teaches these courses only for something to occupy him during his early retirement, and of course he would find me irresistable.

The teachers were all fat, hairy or otherwise hopelessly unattractive.

And so were the students. Except one little 27-year-old boy toy, but that is really not the point here.

So I spent the week flirting shamelessly with the boy toy. Only he wasn't 27 after all. That would be wrong. He was 32. OK, that's several years shy of the target market, and after wasting nearly 4 years of my life on a 47-year old with the immaturity of the average preschooler, I swore I was looking for a grown-up this time. But it had been months. Parts of my body were starting to atrophy from disuse.

You might think that by 32 a boy would have learned a thing or two about what women like and don't like in the bedroom. But since this one clearly had no clue, perhaps others out there do not as well, so consider this a short community service announcement for hapless boytoys of the world:

What Women Like:
Foreplay

What Women Don't Like:
Hard, fast, pounding, porn-style sex

Didn't really think it needed mentioning, but trust me, it does.

Astonishingly I did get 3 dates out of the deal. But boytoys don't count.

Next.